Arizona, modified
by dcat8888
Summary: This is a missing scene between Mark getting shot out in the desert to just after the doctor leaves the hotel room, from the episode, 'You Don't Hear The One That Gets You.'


Arizona, modified

by dcat

I don't own Milt and Mark.

OOOOO

Out cold, hmmm. This was going to be a little more sticky than usual. I let out a frustrated breath as I stood there and saw the tail lights of the Coyote disappear into the night. I guess I was used to having the kid to count on and right now his silence combined with the predicament of the black night meant that this situation was a little bleaker than normal and it wasn't solely just because he was unconscious, he also had a bullet in him too. And the last time I checked, I wasn't a doctor. How exactly was I supposed to get the two of us out of this one? I didn't even know how badly he was injured. He said he'd gotten hit, but we needed to get away quick so there wasn't time to take a peak at the damage the girl had left him with. He'd even led the way as we ran through the desert, so I guess I didn't think it was all that bad. Now he was out cold. I couldn't really blame him, running through the darkness, like we just had, with a bullet hole in his shoulder, trying to hide out from a couple of weirdo's who wanted to kill us, that would probably make anyone pass out. Damn it, now I need to come up with a way to get us out of this mess.

I don't even know where we were for sure, somewhere in Arizona, that's about all I was certain of. Maybe about forty miles from the race track and another fifty, maybe even sixty from the nearest town. I think McCormick called it Silver City. He was checking it out on the map before we left the track. Said he knew just how to get there and joked that they had a good restaurant that I could spend my money at.

I was supposed to buy him dinner, yeah, we even mildly argued about the tab, now I'll be lucky to buy him a get-well soon card if I can figure out a way to get us both out of this one.

We both were on the same wave-length for a change as things started to go haywire, figuring we could tag-team the guy and then easily over-power the girl. Neither one of us thought about 'Bonnie and Clyde' having another gun, let alone the girl being able to hit anything in sheer darkness. She managed to put a slug into McCormick though and the two of them got away in the Coyote.

Now I had to tell McCormick not only did they take his money, they had his car too. I wasn't relishing that conversation.

I don't think I've seen the kid any happier ever in the time I've known him. From the moment he crossed the finish line first at the Arizona Modified's, to as we left the track, headed for a celebratory dinner. The smile he wore was so large and emotion-filled that I thought there was no way he could continue to smile so broadly without physically hurting his face. McCormick wore his heart on his sleeve virtually all the time, constantly up and down, tragedy or euphoria, with very little middle ground. It sure was good to see him so genuinely and deservedly happy for a change. And now all this had happened. I couldn't help but wonder why the big guy upstairs would allow this one to happen. Maybe if it was a movie plot, but this was McCormick's life, sheesh, couldn't the kid catch some sort of break now and again?

When he did come to, he was sure to be headed for one of the deep, sorrowful valleys. And I can't say as I blame him.

That car meant everything to him, a constant link to his past, well, what was good in his past, enduring friendship with Flip Johnson, good times, something he was accomplished at, and something he was proud of, and to the present, it was his and his alone, sole ownership and I knew just how much that meant to him as he had very few actual possessions.

Twenty thousand dollars was a lot of money too, no doubt about that. McCormick had only begun to share his dreams of what he wanted to do with the money. He hadn't even allowed himself a 'what if' moment preceding the race. Told me straight out that he didn't want to discuss it because he wasn't thinking of it. He was merely trying to focus on prepping for the race. When I asked him about what he'd do with the winnings, he told me he didn't want to think about it that he was working out a gas ratio so he could estimate how many laps he could potentially race before he needed a pit stop. He was totally focused on the race, and not on anything else. I didn't know if the kid was superstitious about that sort of thing or whether he just was a realist in not counting his chickens before they hatched, or if he merely didn't think he'd win. There were some things about McCormick that were closely guarded and that was one of them. But the longer he lived at Gull's Way, the more I learned about him and I suppose vice-versa too.

It didn't matter much now, he'd won the top prize. He was on the top of the world for so short a time and now the money along with his car were gone, vanished off in the middle of this dark night. What a damn, stupid shame.

Damn it all to hell, he sure didn't deserve how this day ended. "McCormick?" I tried calling out to him once more, still out cold. Shaking my head, I knelt down beside him and began to see what I could do for him first and then figure out how to get us both out of there.

This long night was about to get even longer.

The only good thing was that 'Bonnie and Clyde' were long gone and we wouldn't have to worry about them trying to kill us. We could now do that on our own out here in the middle of nowhere. No food, no water, the kid's health already compromised. These desert nights were cold, we could die of exposure and the days in the hot sun baking us to a crisp, if we didn't come up with, or make that if I didn't come up with some idea quick.

Even in the blackness I could see all the blood on the kid's suit coat. It was bad, but the only way he'd die from it would be if I couldn't get us out of this in a reasonable amount of time and that wasn't going to happen. I wouldn't allow that. I was firmly resolved to make sure we'd get out of it.

I unzipped the sweatshirt I had on and padded it up and gently tried to put it underneath McCormick. He didn't even make a sound or a move a muscle as I got it situated under his head and shoulders. He probably needed a transfusion from the looks of his stained coat. He finally let out some sort of murmur, I think it was him letting me know that it hurt. "Sorry about jostling you kiddo, but we can't have you bleeding to death out here in the middle of nowhere. You just rest easy," I said in almost a whisper. He didn't make any other sound.

I could really use a flashlight or even a match, so that I could get a look at this wound of his. I scanned the area and off in the distance I could see the headlights from the old pick-up truck that the weirdo's had left behind. That's right, they'd left the truck and taken the Coyote, now there was our first break. "Good news kiddo, we may have a ride," I said to him. Maybe there was some thing in there I could use to help McCormick out and maybe get us both out of here. Even in the dead of night, things were already brightening.

I patted McCormick's left shoulder. "Hang on there kiddo, I'll be right back."

OOOOO

What did I last remember? You mean besides the pain that was ripping through my shoulder and radiating down my right arm? Let's see, I remember me and Hardcase running through the Arizona darkness, trying to hide out from two psychotic lunatics who were bent on killing us. The woman, she shot me in the shoulder as we tried to get away. That's what I remember. And right now I think I'm still out here in the middle of Arizona, only God knows exactly where. I guess I passed out, seems pretty stupid if I did, but I can't even describe how much this shoulder of mine hurts right now. I keep blinking my eyes, trying to find any sense of light or awareness, but only the obscurity of the night surrounds me. The inside of my shoulder feels like it's on fire, or like someone is inside there stabbing me repeatedly with about a million sharp knives, maybe a million dull ones too. Damn, my whole arm is throbbing, including even when I just turn my head to try to figure out what's going on and where the devil Hardcastle is, it's sending the pain shooting clear to my fingertips. I can't help but let out an agonizing moan.

What else has happened since I passed out? "Hardcastle?" I call out, trying to cut through the blackness that engulfs all around me, since it's still the middle of the night. I lift my left hand over and try to gingerly check my right shoulder, but I touch it the wrong way and hear another strained groan come out of my mouth along with some choice expletives, followed by the obnoxious sensation of sticky, bloody wetness on my hand. I pull my hand away quickly and even without seeing it, I know it's covered in my own blood and that it's quivering before my eyes. I can hear my own heart pounding inside my chest and the scared breaths I'm inhaling and exhaling. I'm terrified at the prospects before me. I attempt to roll over to my left side to try to alleviate the ache, but it's no use, almost causing myself to heave. I hold my breath waiting for the pain to pass, but it's no use. I can tell that the blood I've shed has soaked clean through my clothing. _Think about something else, damn it_, I say to myself. Well, that's easier said than done. I don't remember the Judge getting shot and I know he was running right along side me, wasn't he? I remember talking to him. God, did they find him and do something even worse to him? I pushed the thought away. NO, he was nearby, I knew that, Hardcastle was somewhere and he was okay, maybe it was wishful thinking, no, it was the truth! He had to be around. "Hardcastle," I yell a little louder, "Where the hell are you?" My voice cracked as I called out for him. Trying to sit up was a mistake, and I didn't try too hard or too long, so I just lay back down against the cold, hard ground. "Hardcase!" This time I screamed it as loud as I could. The only thing worse than this pain in the shoulder was a pain in the ass. "Judge!" I tried once more and a little louder.

Finally I heard some rustling coming toward me. It was a relief to hear his gruff voice.

"What are you yelling about McCormick? I bet those two nut jobs could hear you above the roar of the Coyote engine."

They took my car! He reminded me with his simple statement. I closed my eyes as another bout of pain racked through me, as well as the thought of those losers riding off in _my_ car.

He came and stood above me. As I saw him come into view, I think I let out a little sigh of relief, maybe even a smile, which he probably thought was stupid, but it was all quickly subdued by the pain that I felt.

"You got shot in the shoulder," he told me. Not exactly the most useful or fact-filled information he'd ever told me.

The guy walked into this stuff, I wanted to laugh at him for telling me something that I obviously already knew, but I decided a smart aleck remark would fit my personality so much better. "Really? I was wondering where all the blood was coming from. I thought maybe I was in a Halloween movie or something, it's real huh?" That was about the best I could do at the moment. Only Milton C. Hardcastle, retired LA Superior Court Justice could manage to take my mind off my problems with such a simple, truthful statement.

"You've been out cold for about an hour or so already wise guy, 'bout time you came too, I don't think it's that bad of a wound." I think he said that more to make me feel better than anything else.

Hardcastle always had to be the tough guy. I felt like my unconsciousness had somehow let me down in his eyes. I groaned at hearing how long I'd be out for though. "An hour?" I repeated.

I think he nodded, it was hard to tell in the darkness. I decided I should try to sit up again, that might get me some 'macho' points with the donkey. My body disagreed and Hardcastle saw it immediately and finally dropped down to one knee beside me.

"There's no sense in trying to get up, you're gonna need a doctor," he started, "I'm trying to get their truck out of a hole, so that you and I can maybe get out of here."

For the first time I noticed he'd taken off the heavy sweatshirt he had on, which he'd placed on the ground underneath me to support my shoulder. "You must be cold?" I asked him absently.

"Me?" He was always had to be the tough one, "No, I told you I'm trying to get that truck out of the rut it's stuck in. Working up a sweat, you know? Those idiots really jammed it in there. Don't try moving around like that, you're only going to make it worse," he reminded me.

"Worse than it is?" I followed it up with another moan. "I don't know how that would even be possible Judge." In any event, I listened to him for a change, my body demanded that of me and my head didn't feel much like arguing or proving him wrong either. Hardcastle had been busy in the past hour. There was no doubt about that and it didn't surprise me, he was the brains and I was supposed to be the brawn. I wasn't really living up to my end of the bargain right now. As he knelt down next to me, he gently opened up my suit coat and he'd also already cut open the pullover sweatshirt I had on to take a look at the bullet wound. I shivered from the sudden cold air.

"Sorry 'bout that," he said, when he saw me shiver. "I couldn't find a blanket or anything to keep you warm." He pulled a flashlight from his back pocket and began to explain, "I found this in their truck though, let me just take a look here and see if the bleeding stopped yet." I closed my eyes tight while he looked and he kept talking to me. "I'm not performing surgery here, I'm just looking at it, there's no need to brace yourself for anything. It's not going to hurt."

"Sorry," I opened up my eyes, but kept them slightly averted. "How's it look?"

"There's still a trickle oozing out, but not nearly as bad as it was earlier. From the looks of the jackets you were wearing, you lost a lot of blood though." He ripped off another part of his own shirt and prepared to make a new bandage to press against the bullet hole. "I'm not sure if the bullet is still in there or not, it's an awful big hole though, and I haven't gotten a look at the entry wound, 'cause I didn't want to move you around too much. The thing we have to watch out for is infection and shock, either one of those could kill ya."

What he said wasn't exactly comforting and he must have seen the worry on my face, because he quickly added. "It's really not so bad, I'll get that truck out and we'll run you right into town and get you stitched up, and you'll be good as new."

"I've never been shot before," I started to admit. "I never thought…" my voice trailed off, something stopped me from going on.

He didn't let me finish. "It can be pretty painful I know. She probably got some bone, that's what's probably hurting so much, if it was a flesh wound it wouldn't burn like it's probably doing."

This guy was an expert on just about anything. How'd he even know what I was feeling? I closed my eyes and took a deep breath.

"That's the best thing to do, just rest easy." Hardcastle thought I was just hurting from the bullet wound, but I was becoming more upset by the moment over the fact that they'd taken my car and my money and that was a pain no doctor could simply stitch up. He had layered the shirt fabric against the wound, then covered it back over with the blue sweatshirt followed by my suit coat. Even that tiny bit of pressure felt like a Mack truck was driving over my shoulder. I must have winced again. "This is probably the worst of it and you're doing just fine. You'll be good as new in no time. Good thing you got all these layers on I suppose. You think you're warm enough?" I gave him a tiny nod that I was indeed going to tough this one out, he wouldn't have it any other way right? "I tried to find a blanket in the truck, but the only stuff in there besides this flashlight, were a bunch of empty bottles of alcohol.

"That," I paused as a new stab of pain jolted me, "I could have used right now," I cracked.

He gave me a partial smile. "Listen, if I'd have found some, I would have used it to clean out the wound, not poured it down your mouth. You might as well just rest easy, until I can get this truck freed up, anyway."

"Nah, I can help you, just give me a hand to get to my feet." I made a motion to get up.

He squelched it right away, "Nothing doing sport, I think I'm getting closer to getting it out, there's no sense in chancing anymore blood loss to you. Even without the flashlight, I can see you're as pale as a ghost," Hardcastle reiterated, "I don't need you to expire on me out here in the middle of nowhere."

"Expire? Judge, no one uses words like that, you can say dead you know. Anyway, I know I'm not dying. I don't think dying would feel like this feels. It just hurts that's all. Really, I think I can give you a hand, and we need to get out of here." I made one last futile attempt to come to a sitting position, but a wave of dizziness hit me and I nearly crashed back to the ground, except that Hardcastle's forearm was there to catch me and keep me from screaming out in pain.

"What's it gonna take for you to listen to me for a change?" He was saying, well, I think he was saying that, my head was still swimming a few laps behind my physical body. I have no idea what I looked like, 'cause I was having a hard time focusing on him or concentrating on what he was saying. "See, you've gone and done it again," I think he said. I tried to pick up my head, but it suddenly weighed a couple of hundred pounds. There was that intense blackness again.

OOOOO

I set him back down against my sweatshirt which was already on the ground. What else could I do? Sitting there and holding his hand wasn't going to get him to a doctor. I had to get back to the truck. I'd have plenty of time later on to jaw at McCormick. Right now I needed to get him out of there. He'd passed out again, I think it was due to the blood loss, but maybe shock and infection were already setting in, maybe that bullet had done more damage than either one of us realized. I didn't want to think it had hit or nicked an artery, but it was a possibility. He needed a doctor quick. I shook my head at him or maybe at our predicament and got up to my feet quickly and went back to the truck.

I had found a nice piece of wood that was serving as a shovel of sorts and I had decided to make a ramp of sorts and drive the truck right on out of the gulley that they had left it in. I spotted a dirt road just up from where they'd abandoned the truck and figured we'd get on that and take it hopefully back to the county two-lane. Making the ramp was proving to be harder than I thought. This earth that I had to work with wasn't exactly doing what I needed it to do, making the whole process much slower than I thought it would be. I could have really used the kid's help here, not so much on the physical side of things, but he'd probably have an idea or two on how best to get this truck out and also to see if it had suffered any damage in the first place. The way it was wedged in and left, well there was no telling if something had sprung a leak or blew a gasket. McCormick was more than valuable to have around when it came to a lot of things, this being one of the best. He filled in a lot of holes in me that I had thought I had buried long ago. I never did let him know that sort of thing out loud. He knew that wasn't me anyway. Even so, when it came to cars and trucks and motors and how to get out of jam, McCormick would be the first guy I'd go to. I went back to building a ramp.

OOOOO

"That ain't gonna work Hardcase," I called out to him as I stumbled my way over to where he appeared to be making some sort of ramp for the old pick-up to drive out of. I don't know if it was the soft ground or my swimming head that was causing me to sway and lea as I moved toward him. My brain felt like it was floating around in one of those old 'Magic 8' balls. And my stomach wasn't too far behind.

"What are you talking about? Of course it'll work," he groused back at me. "And I told you not to get up anyway, look at ya there, if I didn't know you had a bullet in ya, I'd think you were drunk, you stubborn mule," he added for good measure.

I took a few more steps and found myself lucky enough to lean against a tree for some support. "I'm not the mule, you are Judge," I felt I had to remind him. "That's why I'm telling you, that isn't going to work."

He stopped what he was doing and looked over to me. "Why don't you sit down before you fall over wise guy, and tell me how to do this then?"

That actually was a pretty good suggestion on both counts and so I just sort of slunk back and slid down the tree trunk until my posterior hit the ground. "I can't believe you don't have this thing dug out yet? If you've been at it for over an hour, we should have been well on our way."

"I'd be glad to trade places with you McCormick, and don't forget I had to tend to that bloody mess on your shoulder there," he fired back at me.

I waved my left hand at him to let him know that it was enough, "I know, I know, I wouldn't have wanted to _expire_ on you." Even though I'd told him the ramp idea was useless, he continued to scrap away while we exchanged one-liners.

"So what should I be doing here?" He asked.

"Is that supposed to be a shovel?" I finally took a closer look at the seven or eight foot piece of lumber he held.

"Of course it's supposed to be a shovel, I'm improvising here. I told you there was nothing in the truck but a flashlight. Are you going to help or not?" He all but shouted at me.

"Instead of filling in under the chassis, I'd dig out the back tires, you know, let it let itself down and then we just pull straight ahead."

"You think that's gonna work huh?"

I gave him a nod, "I think it's our best shot. This ground's way too soft for anything else," I explained to him.

OOOOO

I wasn't entirely sold on his idea, but when I started to think about it for more than three seconds, it did begin to make some sense. I didn't like the thought of abandoning what I had already started, but McCormick was right, I wasn't getting us any closer to driving out of there and that's what we needed to do. It was time to change the plan.

"I wish I had another one of those clubs like you've got there," he started saying to me. "I could give you a hand and we could maybe get out of here sooner," he called out from the bottom of the tree where he sat. I could see his right arm hanging straight down. And his face was still pale and ashen. Even his voice sounded weak.

"I don't need any help, doing just fine here," I kept working while he seemed content to talk to me.

"Didn't you have tractors or equipment on your place out in Arkansas?" he was asking me. I could hear the tired and ache in his voice. He was doing his darnedest to stay conscious. Since he was trying so hard, the least I could do was answer him.

"It wasn't exactly our place, we were sharecroppers, we didn't own anything. My dad didn't buy a truck till I was nearly fourteen. We worked the land, harvested the crops, mostly by hand, though as I got older there was more machinery involved, but nothing we owned ourselves, it belonged to the landowner. We never did own anything of our own though, except maybe the clothes on our back. Why?" I was wondering where his mind was going and why he had asked me about machinery in Arkansas. I was hoping he wasn't getting delirious on me.

"Well, that explains why you don't seem to have much experience with machinery and the like, fixing it up, keeping it running. I always wondered about that, but that explains it." He was quiet for awhile, and I kept on digging, I thought maybe he had passed out again. Then his voice, quieter and softer spoke up again. "How you ever get from there to LA anyway?"

I stopped my shoveling momentarily and answered him, "Ever hear of hitchhiking? I stuck out my thumb and wah-lah, I was in LA."

I heard him softly laugh. His usual over-exuberant laugh would have probably hurt too much, but it was nice to know he enjoyed my smart response for a change. He was quiet then for about a minute and then spoke up, "Not exactly what I meant Judge. But that's okay, I understand, you don't want to tell me too much about your life. I can respect that, been doing that for going on two years now." He leaned his head back against the tree and just as simply as that he was willing to let go of the conversation he tried to start.

That was another thing about McCormick. For as often as he was wrong about stuff, more often than not, he was right. It wasn't that I didn't want to, it was just easier I suppose, not to dredge it all up. And over the years I'd gotten used to keeping my memories to myself anyway. No one wanted to hear that sort of stuff, did they?

"My Mother had passed away," I started to tell him, I almost couldn't believe I was talking out loud, it was like I had to prove him wrong, that I could talk about my past. And that wasn't quite true either. I really didn't mind telling him, it was just stuff I didn't much think about any more. I kept telling him while I worked my new-fangled shovel, "I guess I looked at it as my time to get away. I was about sixteen I guess, and I knew there was no way I wanted to be a sharecropper for the rest of my life. My father knew it, he knew that neither my brother nor I wanted to do that for a living." I tried to leave it at that, just a simple explanation, but McCormick took my short little statement and continued to press me. Maybe I wanted him to.

"But why LA? I mean you had family there, your Dad, your aunts. You could have been a cop in Arkansas you know?" I knew where this was coming from, McCormick had this urge for family, something I didn't quite get, seeing how his own Dad was a guy named Sonny Daye. His mom must have been pretty special though, since he seemed to be so attached to the concept.

"If you'd have lived the life of a sharecropper, you would know why. It's hard, back breaking work with little or no reward, no land to call your own, nothing, you do best to just get by. I guess I wanted more, or at least something different from that. I'd seen and read enough by then to know that there was more out there and a lot of chums I knew were thinking the same thing, we all thought it would be better if we got out of Arkansas, so that's what we did, we got out. I'm not sure why I picked LA, I think it had something to do with the climate." I hoped we were done with this topic.

He wasn't going to give up anytime soon. I saw him through the darkness, he took a deep breath, and he sure seemed interested in hearing me continue. "I thought you joined the army then?"

"Nope, came out here first, well not here in Arizona, but out in LA. Lived down near Long Beach for almost a year, I loved the ocean right off. I found a job stacking boxes in a warehouse and then a few of the guys I worked with started talking about joining up, so we went down together and did it. Went through basic out in Mississippi and then shipped out overseas.

"It was a different sort of life back then," he began as if he was trying to relate somehow. "You guys just went out and did some bold stuff. That takes a lot of courage. I don't know if I could run off and join the army."

I stopped my shoveling again, "It's a whole different sort of war today. I'm not so sure I would either."

OOOOO

I knew right away that I had said the wrong thing about the war. The Judge went back to shoveling with a new sort of purpose, almost an anger. I think I made him think about his son in Vietnam, and that's not at all what I was alluding to. I let the silence mortar itself between us. After a year and a half that was one thing I didn't breach with him. His son, as a topic was off limits and I sure hadn't meant to cross the line. Now my arm really was hurting, maybe because I'd gone from listening to him and talking to him that my mind was off of thinking of it, now it came back, sore and painful as ever at having it thrust back to the forefront. I leaned forward and took my left hand and carefully pressed it against the wound. I could hear the Judge breathing heavily while he continued to attack the ground with an added aggression.

"What's a matter with you over there?" He surprised me by calling out to me. "You start bleeding again?" He must have seen me lean forward and press on the wound.

"No," I slightly wavered in my answer because of the pain. "It just hurts, that's all."

"Well, I think I almost got this thing sunk out, it shouldn't be too much longer," he said to me.

I decided to do the unthinkable and went back to asking him about his life, but aware that I should avoid anything that had to do with war. I didn't know if he'd keep talking to me or not, but I wanted to, no I had to do something besides sit there and think about my shoulder. "What made you want to be a cop?" There, I'd thrown it out there, a nice easy curve that he'd either hit or he'd swing and miss. I didn't have much to lose.

"Mostly a buddy of mine from the Army," Hardcastle began, thank God he'd caught up to the curve and connected. Once again, I leaned back against the tree, this time continuing to hold my left hand over the wound. "You want to know a tough guy, boy this guy was nothing but solid, steel muscle. His name was George Fenton. George was a Lieutenant in the Army and he'd already worked a couple of years as a cop in Chicago of all places." The Judge paused to chuckle, he must have been thinking of a certain memory. I let him take his time. "Old George wanted me to come back to Chicago with him after the war, said he could easily get me on the force, maybe even partner up together."

"So why didn't you go there?" I asked him.

"Chicago winters mostly. Remember that's why I went to LA in the first place. If I was going to start over somewhere, it was going to be in a place that didn't freeze. And George hated that I said that to him, but I didn't want to deal with all that snow and cold. They say it's only a few months, I say baloney, you're lucky if you get good weather in June, July and August, and I had had a taste of Southern California already and I liked it. I had it pegged that if I could get on the force in Chicago, that I could just as easily make it out in LA. Once we were stateside, I never heard from George again. He was a helluva soldier though, and I was glad to have him on my side over there. I can only imagine the sort of cop he was or maybe still is."

"You should track him down, find out about him, you know, give him a call, you could easily locate him with all the connections you have," I suggested.

"Maybe," he said thoughtfully and then he playfully added, "that is if we ever get out of wherever we are exactly," he pointed around.

"We'll get out of here," I said, closing my eyes, not able to keep them open any longer.

OOOOO

This time I knew he had lost consciousness again. He was quiet for far too long and the way he was leaning his head back against the tree suggested that he'd drifted off. He could have been sleeping too, I guess there wasn't too much of a difference, given the predicament he was in.

I was just about through with getting the truck on an almost level plane anyway. We'd be ready soon enough. I set down the log I'd been using and jumped into the cab of the truck. I fiddled under the steering column for the wires to hot wire this thing. I knew my way around an engine. Maybe I couldn't do it as quickly as McCormick did, but I wasn't repo-ing the thing, I was dang well gonna get this truck fired up so that we could get out of there. I scratched my head after a couple of minutes in a vain attempt. I bent down and looked over the wires, I knew I had the right ones, but the thing wouldn't turn over. It kept making some strange sort of sound. I scratched my head and studied the wires closely again as a thin line of sweat formed on my hairline. It was frustrating that I couldn't get the truck going, it only made me angrier and more determined to get it running. "Try to tell me I didn't tinker around with machinery, that I didn't know my way around an engine, ha." I must have said that out loud because all of a sudden, there was McCormick, left arm grabbing onto the hood of the truck and hanging on for dear life. A simple breeze would have blown him over.

"That's right, you don't know you're way around an engine like I do," he began, "It wasn't an insult Judge, it was merely stating the obvious truth."

I rolled my eyes at him. "I know I've got the right wires here," I tried to sort of hold them up for him to see.

"You do indeed," he said. "That's not your problem though, pop the hood okay?"

"McCormick, what are you gonna do now? You know you shouldn't even be standing up?" There was a hint of frustrating, hesitation in my voice, I'd used that tone with him a lot of the time.

"You're probably right about that, but if we want to get out of here any time soon, I better fix the problem with the truck, now quit talking and pop the hood, will ya?"

I popped the latch and stepped out of the cab. "You know you could just tell me the problem and I can do the fiddling." That only got me a sideways glance from him. His left hand was already elbow-deep into the pit of the engine.

"I know what it is, I could tell when I heard you try to start it. They probably jarred the connection loose when they tried to go off-roading here." He continued to work on the problem and I saw him pause more than once, when he jarred his bad shoulder. He didn't let out any moans or groans, but I know it had to be really bothering him. "Try starting her up now," he said in a strained voice. "Let's get going and get out of here."

I went back to the cab and was able to turn it over. "I'll be damned, what exactly was it?" I shouted over the engine and asked him as he came around and got into the passenger side. He nearly fell in once he'd opened the door.

"Distributor cap," he exhaled and held tenaciously onto his shoulder.

I decided to pay him a compliment, "You're right about me not knowing my way around an engine, but you sure do. We would have had to walk back if we had to rely on me."

"Mechanic is just one of my specialties Judge," he flashed me that grin of his. "But you already know that."

"I know about your other specialties too," I kidded him right back. "Well, just relax and we'll get you to a doctor in no time." I glanced over at him as I started driving off, hoping that he'd shut his eyes and rest, but instead he was glaring at the windshield. "We'll get your car back and maybe the money too," I said to him. I knew that was at the forefront of his thoughts. "First things first though and that's getting you checked out."

He nodded but didn't say anything.

I decided it was best if we both just let the silence engulf us.

OOOOO

"Judge, I lied to you," I started.

"What? What are you talking about? You're not a mechanic?" He cracked.

"I lied to you before," I said again, "about being shot." I was staring at him now and he quickly turned and made eye contact.

"McCormick, you must be delirious then, because that's clearly a bullet hole in your shoulder, trust me on this one. And I know that gal shot at you."

"That's not what I mean," I paused, "This isn't the first time I've been shot." I braced myself waiting for him to respond. I had no idea what might be going through his mind, but as we were driving along it was all I could think about, clearing the air with him over something that had happened so long ago. I know he probably thought I was thinking about my car or the money and I was, but somehow, lying to him or now telling him the truth was more important than either of those things.

"I know you were, I saw the scar on your leg," he started and confirmed it by explaining, "One time when you were cleaning the pool and you had shorts on. I know a scar from a bullet when I see one, I have my specialties too," he now reminded me.

I was the one who was surprised by his revelation. "Why didn't you ever ask me about it then?" If I'd have seen a bullet scar on him I sure would have wanted to know.

"It's none of my business, your past is your past, you have a right to keep it to yourself."

I shook my head, "It's not really a secret or anything, and it's not what you think either."

"Did I say anything?" He was suddenly defensive.

"Judge, I didn't get it by doing anything illegal I swear. In fact I'm finding this whole thing rather humorous. Both times I've been shot now, and I've been a boy scout in both instances," I had to laugh.

"McCormick, you don't have to tell me."

"I want to," I said, changing to a serious tone. "There's only one other guy on the earth who knows besides me and like I said, I didn't do anything wrong."

"Have it your way," he said to me as he followed the dirt road.

"I was just a kid, my Mom had just passed away a few months earlier and the state of New Jersey, in all their wisdom had shipped me off to this crazy, half-way house. It was in a rotten neighborhood and I was the smallest kid in the house. A real outsider, scared of them and scared of what my future was going to be. Most of the guys were teenagers, just hanging out till they hit eighteen, so they could leave. Summertime was coming on and on one of the hotter nights we all escaped the house into the streets to play ball. Being as I was the runt, they stuck me out in deep, deep outfield."

"And you somehow managed to get shot?" Hardcastle felt the need to interrupt.

I gave him an evil eye and continued on. "This giant of a kid steps up to hit and completely crushes one over the pitcher, over the infielders, over the outfielder in front of me and it kept flying over my head. I just turned and started giving chase, figuring it had to come down some time. My plan was to retrieve it and throw it back into play. Maybe I wasn't Willie Mays with a glove, but I could run pretty fast for a runt. Well, when it did finally land, it bounced off of one of the tenement houses and veered off in this alley and I followed suit."

"Is there a punch line coming soon?" He asked.

I ignored him, "The minute I step into this alley, I see two guys, and the one guy has a gun aimed at the other guys head. I don't know what I was thinking, 'cause all I remember reaching down for the ball and when I did, the guy with the gun turned and fired the gun at me and he hit my leg." I could tell Hardcastle was listening intently, just by the way he was so focused on driving. And he wasn't going to be joking around anymore. He knew I was telling him the truth and I think he had a hard time knowing that this had happened to me.

"How'd you get out of it?" he simply asked.

I finished up the memory, "The other guy pushed him out of the way and headed off toward the other end of the alley and the guy with the gun chased after him."

"But what about you?" He wondered.

I turned and looked out of the window, away from his partial stare. It was just starting to get light off in the distance. "Finally," I said to myself, "Morning's coming."

OOOOO

We were just about to turn off the dirt road from hell, back onto the county two-lane.

He took a heavy breath and turned back toward me to tell me what happened to him after he got shot the first time. "Luckily for me there was a kid who also lived in the house, his name was Scott, I don't know what his last name was. He turned eighteen in another week and left. I never saw him again. But Scott sort of took me under his wing, he said someone had done it for him when he came to that house, so he was sort of passing it on. I sat there in the alley, crying like a baby, bleeding and in shock. He sat down next to me and took out a handkerchief and tied it around my calf. It really wasn't that bad, not like this anyway," he motioned toward his shoulder. "The bullet had just grazed me, that's what Scott said. I started forgetting about my leg and was in awe about how much he seemed to know about bullet wounds, when he pulled up his shirt and showed me a scar he had. He told me his Dad shot his Mom to death and nearly killed him too. I tried to stop crying and the tears I had quickly dried up. I wanted to stand up, but before I did, he told me to not tell anyone about what I saw or what happened. He said if I did, I'd be shipped off somewhere else, somewhere probably worse or maybe the guy with the gun would find me and finish what he started. Scott got up and picked up the bullet that was lying on the ground near me and he asked if I wanted to keep it. I shook my head no, and I saw him put it in his own pocket. He helped me get to my feet and I sort of limped my way back to the game. By the time I went in to bed that night, I thought I'd forgotten about it, until now."

"So you feel better getting it out in the open then?" I asked him, "telling the truth?"

"Not really," he answered. "I shouldn't have forgotten about it then. That guy shot at me, he was the crook, the bad guy. I was just a kid. It's not supposed to work that way." He was getting worked up, I could tell, I could hear it in his voice and see it in his body language. "I know I haven't done everything the right way Judge, I've made my share of mistakes and then some, but I'm not going to let them run off with my car and my money. The law's got to work for me too."

"It will McCormick, I promise you that. But we're not going after them, you need to get stitched up first and then we're letting the law handle this. You're way too close to this. I am too. We'll let the sheriff handle it." I know he wasn't satisfied with my answer or my attempt at an explanation. I think he just gave in to the ache in his shoulder or maybe he knew he wasn't going to win an argument with me over this. And I knew he'd try again.

I drove us to into Silver City as the sun began to rise.

OOOOO

Hardcastle dumped me off at the Silver City Motel as he went off in search of a doctor. It wasn't much of a town. It didn't have a hospital or a clinic for that matter, but the desk clerk at the motel told him that there was a doctor in town just up the street from the motel.

By now I'd forgotten about the earlier life I'd led. I actually did sort of hate myself for dredging up stuff in my past and using it as some sort of shield. It was what it was, and for me, that merely meant that that part of my life was over. Yet the vague similarities of getting shot when I was defenseless sort of seemed surreal to me. All the cars I boosted, and repo'ed, and now this life of playing Tonto to the Lone Ranger and I'd never gotten shot. It was a joke, albeit a sad one.

The longer I waited, the madder I became.

OOOOO

When I unlocked the door to McCormick's hotel room, I knew right away that his mood had continued to plummet. The doctor hastily got to work. I had told him on the way over what had happened and he got right to business. The best news was that the bullet had passed through and was still sitting out there somewhere in the Arizona desert. Near as the doc could ascertain, the bullet had probably hit some bone, but nothing was broken. He suggested we see our own doctor when we got back home. He started to sew up both ends of McCormick's bloody shoulder.

McCormick wasn't crying this time. Local anesthesia or not, I don't think I could have sat there as straight and still and emotionless as he did during the whole ordeal. It had to hurt like a SOB. My old Army buddy George Fenton would be proud of a kid like McCormick.

The doctor gave him a prescription as he prepared to leave. McCormick and I both remembered to thank him and in a flash, McCormick was up off the bed, ready to hunt down our two psychotic friends.

I reminded him that that wasn't going to happen, he was going home, on a bus.

OOOOO

"If you want to go and suck in bus fumes, you go ahead, I'm going after them," I said to him as I put on a jacket.

"And what are you going to do when you keel over in two blocks?" Hardcastle asked me.

"You're gonna pick me up, that's what friends are for right?" I thought about Scott picking me up in the alley back when I was a kid, and I looked over to Hardcastle and realized that he'd be there for me a whole lot more than just picking me up off the ground, but I could certainly trust him with doing that too.


End file.
